#making mistakes doesn't make you inherently bad

[highfantasy-soul]

It's very frustrating to me when ppl interpret powerful women's plot lines in wot in ways I don't feel are really accurate.

I've seen a lot of people arguing Siuan's future plot, Morgase's, Elaida's, Moiraine's, etc are 'powerful women being humiliated and brought low, being forced to be submissive b/c they dared to be a strong woman' and I strongly disagree

I think if we ignore the world building of the books and pretend all the same gender dynamics as our world is at play, sure, I could see that. But in the books, women hold more power than men. They're used to being the ones in control

How I see these women's stories is *those in power* had to decide how they're going to respond to losing that power. It's a powerful person having to accept that everyone else gets to make their own decisions too. It's people being held accountable for what they did when they had power. It isn't 'punishment for being a powerful woman'

The way Mo 'submits' to Rand isn't because he's a man - it's because he's the dragon reborn and has to be able to make decisions for himself if he wants to be a good leader/ champion of the light. Because of how Mo treated him before, the only way she can prove she's no longer trying to dictate his every move is to fully obey Rand - though she never really does, it's her way of taking accountability for how she's treated him in the past, acknowledging that her extreme control *did* effect him and she has to own that

Siuan's post-stilling arc wasn't to narratively bring a powerful woman low, but rather to show how those in the world respond to differing power levels. The Aes Sedai don't treat each other differently because they're women, they judge based on strength in the power. A deposed leader will garner a lot of varied responses and I never viewed Siuan's mistreatment as something due to her gender but rather how she conducted herself as Amyrlin and the subsequent fallout of the tower's break. She *did* make enemies as Amyrlin and she *did* make mistakes: not because she was a woman, but because she was a person in power and nobody always makes perfect decisions.

RJ wrote complex characters in complex situations and I never felt he was preaching 'this is the correct way to view this situation' (unlike BS' parts of the story), he was just acting more as a historian cataloging what happened to these characters in this world. Obviously, RJ wasn't a perfect person either and there are things we can criticize/ wish he had done differently, but I just don't agree that he wrote about powerful women being punished for having been powerful women

[just-a-little-unionoid]

that but also, I think the reason it could happen, one of them at least, like, why the people and all let it happen, is fundamentally just because people here angry and afraid and stressed and things like that so they went "yeah let's go there and kill a bunch of people that Are Not Us" like genuinely just a primal blowing off stream

there is no more logic behind it, there is no "good" reason, people think they need good logical reasons to do things so they get surprised when they do something retrospectively illogical but really sometimes you don't need to look much farther than primitive instinct

I missed most of the Iraq war due to being a baby, but every time I read about it I start wondering why we aren’t all talking about it all of the time

[sreegs]

TERFS FUCK OFF

One of the common mistakes I see for people relying on "AI" (LLMs and image generators) is that they think the AI they're interacting with is capable of thought and reason. It's not. This is why using AI to write essays or answer questions is a really bad idea because it's not doing so in any meaningful or thoughtful way. All it's doing is producing the statistically most likely expected output to the input.

This is why you can ask ChatGPT "is mayonnaise a palindrome?" and it will respond "No it's not." but then you ask "Are you sure? I think it is" and it will respond "Actually it is! Mayonnaise is spelled the same backward as it is forward"

All it's doing is trying to sound like it's providing a correct answer. It doesn't actually know what a palindrome is even if it has a function capable of checking for palindromes (it doesn't). It's not "Artificial Intelligence" by any meaning of the term, it's just called AI because that's a discipline of programming. It doesn't inherently mean it has intelligence.

So if you use an AI and expect it to make something that's been made with careful thought or consideration, you're gonna get fucked over. It's not even a quality issue. It just can't consistently produce things of value because there's no understanding there. It doesn't "know" because it can't "know".

[luna-azzurra]

Ways I Show a Character Who Believes They’re the Villain in Everyone Else’s Story

╰ Behavioral Red Flags

They assume the worst intentions in themselves, even when they act out of love. They brought you coffee? Probably just guilt. They helped you move? Must be manipulating you so you "owe" them later. (They just care. But they can't believe that's true.)

They over-apologize for existing. You bump into them and somehow they’re the ones apologizing, looking like they've personally inconvenienced your entire bloodline.

They self-monitor everything. Every joke they make. Every word they say. Every look they give. Constant little glances at people's faces, desperate for signs that they’ve messed up again.

They let people treat them badly because they think they deserve it. Rudeness? Sure. Being overlooked? Of course. Public humiliation? Absolutely par for the course. Standing up for themselves feels wrong, like a thief demanding a refund.

They preemptively distance themselves when things get good. Got a close friendship brewing? Time to pull away before they find out I'm terrible. New romance? Better end it now before they hate me.

They assume jokes about "bad people" are secretly about them. "You know those selfish jerks who never change?" someone says. Their inner monologue: That’s me. They mean me.

They play up their flaws. Self-deprecating humor, but not cute self-roasting, deep, almost aggressive, like they’re trying to hand you the knife before you even think about stabbing.

They struggle to accept forgiveness. Apologizing feels natural. Being forgiven feels alien. Like wearing shoes on the wrong feet.

╰ Thought Patterns That Wreck Them

"Even when I try to do the right thing, I mess it up." Trying doesn't absolve them. Trying just delays the inevitable hurt they’ll cause someone else."People are nice to me because they don't know who I really am." Kindness isn't acceptance to them — it's a ticking time bomb, waiting to explode when the "truth" comes out.

"If someone is angry at me, they must be right." They don't even question it. Anger directed at them must be justified. They deserve it.

"If I succeed, it's by accident. If I fail, it's because I suck." Zero credit for wins. Full credit for losses. The math of their self-esteem is so rigged it should be illegal.

"If I ask for help, I'm manipulating people." Needing something feels like emotional blackmail in their mind. Better to suffer in silence than risk "forcing" someone to care.

╰ The Tiny Physical Tells

Laughing after their own serious statements, as if to soften the blow of speaking honestly.

Keeping their hands visible when talking (subconscious "I'm not a threat" behavior).

Flinching when someone raises their voice, even if it’s not directed at them.

Making themselves physically smaller—shoulders hunched, arms crossed, shrinking into themselves like they can disappear if they just try hard enough.

Dropping eye contact when complimented.

Holding their breath without realizing it when waiting for someone's reaction.

╰The Relationships They Gravitate Toward (And Why):

Fixer-Upper Friendships: They think they have to earn affection by being useful, by helping, by being "the strong one."

Unbalanced Dynamics: They let people use them because "at least I'm being helpful, even if they don't actually care about me."

Romantic Partners Who Validate Their Worst Fears: They often fall for people who treat them like they’re a burden—because it matches the script in their head.

Or... Relationships That Terrify Them: Because if someone genuinely loves them, they’re always waiting for the moment that person "wakes up" and sees the "monster" they believe themselves to be.

╰ How They Might Heal (If They’re Lucky)

(And if the author isn’t an emotional sadist. 👀)

A relationship where mistakes are allowed, not punished.

Someone calling them out, not for being bad, but for being unkind to themselves.

Tiny acts of trust that stick over time, slowly poisoning the idea that they’re inherently toxic.

Learning that being flawed and being villainous are not the same damn thing.

Being told, over and over, "You don't have to earn love by being perfect."

[artofchira]

(an ask from my retrsopring)

Apologies in advance, this is going to sound harsh.

'What is different then?' It's not complicated. A computer is not a human. A computer can't think. A computer can't feel. A computer can't experience. A computer can't learn. To equate a computer's ability to copy and regurgitate data to a human's ability to communicate through art is so existentially offensive as a premise that it's inherently bad faith, even if you yourself aren't asking it in bad faith. You may as well be asking me what's the difference between a plagiarist and a writer, because if that difference between those two things is even entertained as a debate, then either you're being made an idiot or you are indulging idiots. At worst, both.

No one seems to debate this when it comes to the idea of, say, athletes. A machine can ostensibly produce the same results as a basketball player, throw a ball in the hoop and score points against other machines. But that's patently ridiculous, isn't it? People don't watch sports for the concept of throwing balls in hoops, people watch sports for human spectacle and physical ability.

It's a mistake to think art is only about the results, that's capitalist thinking in that only the end conclusion of the process has any value (fiscally or otherwise). Propaganda made by mediocre people who think being an 'idea guy' is the only important part of any project. Art is about ability, it's about expression, it's about making history. It's about human labor and craftsmanship. It's about being alive.

That a creator who is too lazy to respect their own art doesn't have the imagination to be good at it, and also they hate the planet and want humanity to die, ostensibly.

[hellspawnmotel]

Any specific thoughts on Noelle’s seemingly one sided crush on Susie? Ur analysis are always real neat

hm! well I kinda already talked about this but only in a tag essay like 2 1/2 years ago (here) so I can get into it again.

I think noelle's crush on susie reveals a lot about noelle as a person, though the story and framing so far have kind of conditioned us to just look at it as a surface level "omg mean tough girl x sweet shy girl! lesbians!!" and maybe even subconsciously connect it to alphys/undyne and just brush it off as the type of wholesome relationship toby likes writing. I also don't think the crush is necessarily one-sided! you could argue that susie felt pressured into saying what she did on the ferris wheel, but susie is all about breaking the rules and doing whatever she wants so that wouldn't make much sense to me. her responses seemed very genuine. it could turn out to be a fleeting feeling or susie mistaking a desire to be friends as a desire for romance, but I don't really have enough information to speculate much on that yet.

back to noelle, pre-chapter 2 noelle's attraction to susie seems far more based in fantasy than anything, kind of objectifying susie's violence. which is fine, she's a teenager, it doesn't make noelle a bad person, it just indicates that the crush is very shallow to start off. susie is also a symbol to noelle, someone she definitely sees as representing freedom and defiance, which is something she craves. noelle does end up very open to the possibility of getting to know susie as a real person once she learns susie is "nice" but her priorities are still more with her own feelings than susie's.

this is tricky to talk about as an adult, so first I'd like to remind everyone that I have Been a teenage girl and I remember very clearly what it was like, haha. anyway I would argue that noelle's interest in susie is also undeniably sexual, even if she doesn't fully realize it. I think we all kind of know that but it's uncomfortable to just say in plain language. (this is an aside but I think the way toby implies this from noelle's dialogue and internal monologue is REALLY smart from a writing perspective, it leads the brain there without getting weird about it.) in addition to freedom, susie also represents adulthood to noelle in that way. she represents the future, one where noelle can fully express herself. at the same time, noelle associates the feeling of fear with being protected by somebody else in her childhood, the past. susie is "the good kind of scary", both sexually exciting, an "adult" feeling, and nostalgically comfortable, a "child" feeling. susie could be the bridge between past and future that noelle, who is notoriously frozen in her own childhood, needs to move forward. I think that could apply even if the two don't end up together, just from noelle working through her own feelings about it all.

I could also get into the implications of suselle being "the narrative's approved ship" or how noelle's relationship with susie contrasts her relationship with kris, or even how we're conditioned to see lesbian relationships as either inherently more "wholesome" or the taboo and exciting "toxic yuri", but this is getting really long already. idk where it all will end up going but I think theres already a lot to dive into if you look past the surface!

[hyperesthesias]

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Character

summary: Simon "Ghost" Riley makes the mistake of intervening on the behalf of a woman stuck in an abusive relationship. The only reason it's a mistake -- he has six months of leave, and he's falling for her. When he ships out, he promises that if she's ever in danger again, to call him and he'll come running. Ten years later, he receives that call -- only to find it's her daughter who's asking for his help.

author's note: this idea came to me while i was falling asleep, and it bothered me all night until i could write it today. i apologize for the chicken scratch. it's really just three ideas in a trench coat. i love this idea so much i might turn it into a book at some point. if that happens, i will probably delete this. but for now -- enjoy!

content: unformatted & not proof-read; references to past sexual assault; references to torture; abusive relationship (not perpetuated by Ghost); graphic sex; kidnapping; canon-typical violence; PTSD.

words: 10,692.

if you'd like music while you read, these songs are what i wrote this to: whiskey sunrise by chris stapleton // just pretend by bad omens // vore by sleep token.

He is on leave. He is attempting to assimilate into the usual crowd of a parking lot, but no matter how aware he is of his gait, or how many times he looks over his shoulder, he can't shake the feeling that he is inherently out of place. He's been home three weeks, back on English land, where the sea and river air feel damp on his skin, and he realizes home is an idea, not a place. He'll never feel the way he did all those years ago, when he was once a person he no longer recognizes.

He is content to stock up on the regular supplies: alcohol and caffeine -- caught in the perpetual sedative-stimulant cycle. He can make do with whatever else he has at his flat; it's sparse and barely furnished, but he's certainly had worse. He doesn't want to think of worse right now. He wants to think about getting a couple of six packs, and sitting in that in the living room chair that's too soft, and that's too difficult to get out of, he wants to think about putting his feet up, and pretending to watch football. He wants to pretend to be normal, if only for a few hours, until night falls and sleep waits in the corner for him.

But he's too observant for his own good -- it's always saved his ass, but sometimes, like today, it's a curse.

He sees a man in the far end of the parking lot, with the distinctive glint of a blade in his hand. He's growling behind grit teeth something Simon can't hear clearly. The man has gotten out of his car, and is slashing the tires of another man, who's trying to stay as far away from the sharp end of the knife as possible; there's a woman seated in the passenger's side of the aggressor's car, she's still as stone, terrified to move.

Simon swears under his breath, knowing he's not obligated to do a damn thing while on leave -- and knowing he's more than obligated, despite. His appearance is still obscured, he's wearing a black surgical mask, with a black aviators, and a cap; he looks like someone pretending to be tougher than they are. But no one needs to know otherwise.

He intervenes in the situation, trying to deescalate as quickly and as quietly as possible. Using a light pole and the position of the two cars as cover from the security cameras in the parking lot, he places himself between the aggressor and the victim -- who is now taking photos of the tires for insurance. Simon has one eye on the girl inside the man's car, and the other on the shaking hands of the coward in front of him. After his attempts to talk him off the ledge fail, Simon easily disarms the man and sprains his wrist as he twists the hilt of the knife out of his palm. He lands a punch into the man's gut, and tells him to stay down as he doubles over onto the pavement. When he doesn't obey, Simon kicks him in the head to make sure he doesn't wake up for a while. He briefly glances at the man whose tires were slashed, but he only turns a blind eye, still preoccupying himself with his insurance photos.

Simon makes his way to the passenger side, still avoiding the cameras, where the woman remains paralyzed from the violence that has occurred in front of her. He leans one arm on the roof of the car as he peers into the window, and ushers her out.

"You could do a lot better than him, you know," he says.

She looks her behind her to the man on the ground, then to the one who is standing above her. She doesn't say anything, but follows the instruction to exit the car.

"My advice --" Simon says, without prompting, "take this as a win. Leave him behind. A man like that will only bring you down."

It takes her a moment to register what he's said, but ultimately she agrees. She half expects him to be gone by the time she looks back at him -- like a vanishing stranger clad in all black -- but to her surprise, he's still there. He's standing beside her, looking at his smartphone. "Th--Thank you," she says.

He gives her half a look as he continues to fiddle with his phone. "Don't mention it."

She takes it as a command, rather than a pleasantry.

"I can call you a ride," he tells her, and hands her his phone -- a burner. "Put your address in, and I'll make sure the bastard doesn't start coming to."

She shakes her head. "I live just down the block. I'll just...walk home."

"He know where you live?"

"Yes," she answers, a cling of shame to her voice -- for a reason she can't quite discern.

Simon deviates from his plan, and instead puts in an anonymous tip to the police about a man causing a disturbance at the grocery’s address. The victim with the slashed tires isn't going anywhere any time soon, and would still be there to give a statement. "He won't be bothering you for a few days, at least. Long enough for you to get somewhere he doesn't know about." He walks her home.

She introduces herself as Cecelia, and all he replies is: "Simon".

He never got that beer. The next day, he goes to a different store, hoping he doesn't run into another moment of conscience.

The next week, he makes the misguided attempt to check on her. He debates for a while on whether or not it would come across as predatory that he remembered where she lived. He never vacillates in the field, but every time he remembers he's not in the field, he questions whether his decisions are appropriate for 'normal' life. He's made peace with never being 'normal', but for a moment, he'd like to not feel so unfit for human society.

Cecelia answers the door, and a part of him is disappointed -- disappointed that she wasn't far away from her ex-boyfriend, and disappointed that now he has to actually speak to someone.

"Simon," she welcomes him, to his surprise.

At her bidding, he steps inside her flat; he checks the corners around the door and the foyer, a habit of which he's painfully aware. "You always invite masked strangers in?"

She chuckles at the oddity, and closes and locks the front door. "You would be the first. But I don't consider us strangers -- not after your help last week. I am grateful."

"You able to find somewhere safe?" he asks.

"They're keeping him for now. He can't afford bail."

He nods and looks around at her apartment, that prickly feeling of being out of place starting to get worse, and more intense at the forefront of his skin. She has houseplants, a warm, well-used couch, paintings hanging from the wall. There's an electric tea kettle on a breakfast bar, with a lipstick stained mug sitting next to it. Her home looks like something out of a dream he had on occasion as a child -- after watching too many sitcoms on television. Everything always looked happy, everyone always laughed and got along. It was just as well it was on television, nothing like that could be real. Until it is, and until he's standing in the middle of it -- ill-fitted.

"I didn't mean to interrupt," he says, hoping for a quick and quiet exit. "Just wanted to make sure he hadn't come back to give you trouble."

"Please -- can't I offer you tea?"

She had the good kind in a glass jar on that breakfast bar, and his well-engrained comforts gave him a moment of pause. It was just enough of a pause to let her move from him to the kettle, where she was already making him a cup. She tells him it's the least she can do for him. He waits until she takes a drink of hers first. It is damn good tea.

She tells him her ex's hearing will be in a couple of weeks. Simon tells her he'll check on her then.

Over the next few weeks, he keeps in regular contact with Cecelia. Every time he comes over, she makes him a cup of tea, updates him about the case against her ex, and then they sit in silence. It's become a routine. After two months, he starts coming to her house even without cause from her ex's case. He starts to feel like those feral cats she feeds on her patio. But the silence is nice. Sitting in the warmth of her living room, instead of his own -- cold and rigid -- it was a pleasant change. There's a subtle, subconscious thought that he's afraid to let come to the surface -- that in a way, she has saved him as much as he helped her that day.

"When do you go back?" she asks one afternoon, breaking the silence between them.

Immediate suspicion grows within him, and he doesn't answer for a while, he only stares at her.

"It's not a difficult assumption that you're military," she explains. "I had a brother in the Navy." She pulls out a gold pendant necklace from beneath her sweater and shows it to him, hoping the display of vulnerability might help him feel more comfortable to answer. "This was the last thing he gave me. He sent it to me while he was overseas. He never stopped worrying about me, even while he was in active duty," she smiles, but it's a sad smile.

The stiffness in his shoulders softens only mildly, and he breaks his gaze from her. "I ship out in four months."

She only nods. A part of her was hoping that it'd be longer, that they'd have more time to get to know one another. The mystique was enticing, but the comfort she felt sitting in his company was something she hadn't felt in a long time. She would miss it when he was gone.

"What happened to your brother?"

"He was killed," she answers. "In a training exercise. That never sat right with me, though. I always felt they weren't tell me the whole truth."

"Probably weren't," he says.

"I don't know whether or not that's a comfort or if it just makes it worse."

"Whatever the truth is, probably worse. Better to take what they give you."

"You always take what they give you?"

He looks at her again. This time, not with suspicion, but with guilt. Guilt of following orders, guilt of not. The weight of betrayal. The heaviness of killing the people who were meant to have his back -- the people he was meant to trust. The anger and despair that he keeps caged somewhere just below the surface of being double crossed by those meant to guide him. It's a long time before he answers: "No."

They don't speak again for the rest of the afternoon. He leaves, as he always does, but this time he washes the mugs before he goes.

Another week passes, and in the middle of the night, he's startled by his phone ringing. It doesn’t wake him, but it disrupts the cycle of blended thoughts and memories that blanket him at night. He has half the mind to let it go to voicemail; it's just his burner phone, no one important has that number -- besides Cecelia. The static of worry crawls beneath his skin, and he looks at the caller ID. It's her.

"You alright?" he answers.

"Simon --" panic is set into her voice. "I think someone's trying to break in."

"Lock yourself in the closet. I'm on my way."

He's armed to the teeth when he gets to her flat. The glass patio door has been jimmied open, and her apartment has been tossed. The paintings are broken and hanging crooked on the wall, the soil from the plants is spilled and pressed into the carpet by footprints. Simon stalks from room to room, until he hears Cecelia scream from her bedroom. He raises his weapon and pushes open her bedroom door -- the ex is pulling her out of her closet by her hair, with a baseball bat in his other hand.

"Drop it!" Simon demands. It surprises her attacker, that his grip lightly loosens from her -- she's trying to wriggle free from his hand beneath him. "Drop it, or I drop you."

"You! -- You bastard!" he yells back. "This is your fault! Look what you've done, huh! Look at it!"

Simon doesn't take his eyes off her attacker, but he can see Cecelia clawing at the man with every might of strength she has -- she's pulling blood from his arm. "Let her go. I'm not telling you again."

The man releases Cecelia's hair, and grips the bat with both of his hands. He lunges at Simon with full force. Simon deflects the bat with one arm, feeling the impact of the wood absent of any armor. He follows his hand around the bat and grabs its handle, flipping it out of the attacker's grasp. He holsters the gun -- wanting to draw as little attention to himself as possible; and in that same sentiment, he refrains from hitting the man in the head with his own bludgeon -- regardless of how much he wants to. With a powerful swing, Simon cracks the bat against the man's tibia. The bone snaps audibly and the man collapses to the floor, wailing in agony. Whether out of the assurance of safety, or out of the flame of revenge, Simon takes one more pass with the bat and breaks both of the man's kneecaps.

He once more calls the police, and her attacker is taken to the hospital for his injuries under police escort. Simon encourages Cecelia to be seen by the paramedics, even though she insists she's fine. But no matter how many times she refuses, Simon tells her she needs to. They take her to the hospital for a concussion. He makes himself scarce.

He debates visiting her the next day. Much to his chagrin, and no matter how much he tries to deny it, he's grown attached to her. He knows it's not inherently a negative thing, but it is a liability. Regardless of how much of an asshole her ex was, Simon couldn't help but feel there was some truth to what he said: that if he hadn't intervened that day, nearly three months ago, that none of this would've happened. He tries not to think about the long term consequences of his actions.

He visits her in the hospital anyway.

He brings her flowers in an awkward gesture -- though it’s no less heartfelt.

"You have someone you need me to call?" he asks.

She's lying in her hospital bed, scraped and bruised, still mildly concussed, but grateful her injuries weren't worse. "No. It's just me."

"No friends?"

She sighs. "Not anymore. He made sure of that."

He nods, knowingly. His own father isolated his mother, Margot, as much as he could, until she'd had no one left. "I heard the doc say he’s gonna release you later today."

"I wish I was happier to go home."

"You don't have to be happy," he says.

As cynical as it sounded, it relieves the pressure from her shoulders of having to put on a front. "I could use some clothes, though."

"I'll get 'em for you," he tells her.

He returns to her flat and packs her an overnight bag. Her flat is a wreck, and the doors are still compromised. When she is discharged, he brings her to his place instead.

"You take the bed," he tells her when they step through his door. "I'll have the couch. I'd offer you tea, but it isn't any good." Even when he's joking he never sounds like it.

She's gotten accustomed to this timbre, and looks at him with a smirk. "I guess I'll have to settle for a beer, then."

She can't see it, but he's returning the smirk. At his place -- which he doesn't call a 'home' -- he takes off the black surgical mask, and the cap; he takes off his gloves, and puts them all by the front door. It's one of the rare times she's seen him so bare.

He helps her get settled, and gets her the beer. She's seated on his couch and he joins her. "It's as cold as it's gonna get."

She stays with him for a week; the patio door is being repaired by the insurance and the landlord. She doesn't mind, she feels safer at his place anyway -- even if it is lacking warmth. He's always awake before her, and every morning, she's woken by the scent of coffee. When she comes out of the bedroom and into the living area, there's always a cup waiting for her on the table.

Simon adds reinforcement to her front and patio doors. "Don't tell anyone where you got this," he tells her as he installs the locks and alarms for her. He helps rehang her paintings, and scrub the carpet. It takes his mind off of other things that try to come to the surface. His mind is emptier of its evils than it has been in a long time, and he's acutely aware that this is temporary.

When Cecelia is settled in her place again, she asks him to stay. He doesn't want to say no.

So he doesn't.

It's a whirlwind romance -- one they both know will end in only a few months' time. Despite the fact that he's only known her for a brief period, he can't recall feeling so comfortable. He won't say safe. He'll never say safe. Because he never is. He won't say at peace. And he won't say happy. But he is comfortable. It's a foreign feeling, one that he distrusts if he thinks about it too long. But when he's lying next to her at night, the brutal images in his head are less vivid, the screaming voices are quieter, sometimes he even sleeps.

They haven't had sex. It's not a subject he's even broached, and neither has she. When she lies beside him, the most contact they have is her hand on his chest, and her face nestled into his side.

She kisses him on the cheek once, and it takes him a moment to process it. He's still and quiet, his eyes are downcast as he's contemplating it. She asks if she's done something wrong. He tells her no -- not at all.

One evening, when he's staying at her place — as he often does — they're on her couch after a couple of drinks. They were at one point watching television, but they've since been ignoring it -- talking, and in between whispered words, soft kisses. One thing leads to another, and she's sitting on his lap, his arms are around her, and he's kissing her deeply. He forgot how to kiss like this -- he didn't think it was still possible within him. That there was still some form of passion and intimacy that was in his spirit. He's hungry -- and with every kiss he's getting hungrier. She's laughing and enjoying herself. The way she feels on top of him feels good, it's just enough movement and pressure to turn him on. It feels good -- until suddenly it doesn't.

Simon immediately pulls away and stops. The passion in him is walled up, shut up, and where there was once heat beneath his skin, it's now cold, concrete.

Cecelia stops and looks for his eyes. "Are you alright? What happened?"

He tries to get himself to talk. But nothing comes out. He's not supposed to talk. He's not supposed to say anything. He's trying to squirm away from her now, and she takes the signal quickly. She gets off his lap, and sits beside him, still trying to figure out what happened. She gets them ice water instead of asking any more questions. He looks like he's still dissociating by the time she comes back, and she has to prompt him to take the water.

Simon goes back to his place that night. He lies in bed staring at the ceiling, until the nightmares come.

He's startled awake the next morning by a sound that doesn't exist. It takes several minutes for him to catch his breath -- his heart is in his throat, and he can't focus on anything in front of him. Eventually, he's able to discern his own sheets, he's able to tell he's in England, that he's nowhere near Mexico — his captors. He's still shaking by the time he finally reaches for his phone on the nightstand.

There's a text from Cecelia. He opens it, expecting the worst: that she never wants to talk to him again after what happened last night. That his rejection of her was insulting, and that he was less of a man for it. It was for the better, he thinks. It saves him a messy departure later.

But the text is very different than what he thought:

She apologizes. She thinks his reaction had something to do with her.

It couldn't be further from the truth.

Cecelia was indescribably incapable of the evil done to him. He just doesn't know how to explain that to her.

Well, how to explain it to her and still maintain some kind of dignity and confidence.

It would be easier if he doesn't reply, he thinks. Again, it would save him a messy ending with her. If he ghosts her -- no pun intended, he thinks to himself, but fitting regardless -- he never has to explain himself. He never has to tell the truth. Even to himself.

But that would be cowardly.

He's a lot of things. But a coward isn't one of them.

He doesn't reply.

Instead, he's on her doorstep later that evening. Just like one of those feral cats.

Cecelia answers the door, and he can't look her in the eye. "I come in?" he asks, his head still on a swivel, both out of instinct, and also to provide an excuse as to why he won't look at her.

She agrees, and closes and locks the door behind him. She doesn't say anything for a minute, waiting for him to make the first move, but instead he's standing in the middle of her living room, awkwardly -- like a video game character in the loading lobby.

"I didn't think I'd hear from you," she says. "I hope I didn't --"

"It's not you." He cuts her off. "You didn't do anything." He takes his hat off, and runs a gloved hand through his hair as he tries to figure out what to do with himself. He still won't remove the mask. He needs something -- some kind of barrier.

"I'll put the kettle on," she says. It's going to be a long night, she can feel it.

It's been years, it's been a lifetime ago. But some things don't stay dead. Like memories. All those weeks under Roba's influence of torment, retreating into ugly corners of his mind to escape the evil being done to him at the drug lord's hand, and all those under Roba's command -- viscerally having his body and mind being used and crushed in the attempt to break him. He hasn't talked about it, except in veiled mutters under his breath -- only once -- to Price. Even then, he wasn't entirely sure he understood, Simon made no effort to clarify.

He doesn't go into detail with Cecelia. She doesn't deserve to hear about the gore, the blood and violence. But he gives her clear implications, with bullet points of what transpired after he clawed his way out of Roba’s torture, out of Vernon's grave: the deaths of his mother, his brother and sister-in-law, his nephew.

Hours have passed since he showed up without warning, and yet their time together has been mostly silence. His words few and far between, he said most of what he meant without speaking. She didn't interrupt him.

At last she asks: "Did you get them?"

He looks at her, for the first time since he arrived. But he can't hold her eyes long, and he nods. "I got 'em."

"Good."

The next week, they're on her couch again -- two drinks in, with the television mindlessly on mute -- and this time, he lowers her onto the cushions, where he settles on top of her.

Foreplay last for several days. He gets to a point where he can be shirtless, or have his pants unzipped, until he backs down. He lies on her chest instead, and falls asleep as she runs her hands through his hair. She tells him more than once he doesn't have anything to prove. He knows, he tells her, it's something he wants to do; his mind and body need to do some catching up, is all. She waits.

It's the weekend, and she's invited him to stay over the next few days. She'll make them dinner. He comes by with a six pack and some fresh bread. There's a box of condoms in his back pocket, but he's not going to tell her that -- he doesn't want to promise anything and then not deliver.

But it happens. And it happens because they're not trying to make it happen.

They move to the bedroom; he has half his clothes off by the time she follows him. She's in her bra and panties as she gets on the bed -- she regrets it's not the matching pair, but it doesn't even look like he notices. At his request, she doesn't sit on top of him, she sits beside him as she rubs her palms into his chest, down his abdomen, trailing every outline of his body with a single finger.

She has a cute nose, he thinks -- it scrunches as she smiles, and she hasn't stopped smiling since they ran to the room like teenagers trying not to get caught. He cups a hand on her face, tracing her nose and the lines of her smile. He leans to put a kiss on her mouth, her hands taking his jaw gently. Every movement is gentle and deliberate. She moves her lips from his, down his neck, where they follow his sternum, his stomach, to the trail of soft hair that leads beneath his briefs. With his help, she removes them, and puts them with the pile of clothes on the floor.

He's already getting hard, and she wraps her hand around his cock, gently pumping him to help him along. She feels him twitch as he takes a deep breath, and when she looks at him to see if he's alright, he brushes a lock of her hair behind her ear. She dots gentle kisses along his tip and frenulum, and his hand moves from her hair to twist into the sheets beneath him. She laughs as she takes him into her mouth, and the vibration of her laughter onto his cock makes him swear.

Simon takes another breath and watches as she bobs up and down his length, now fully erect. As she feels his body tense, she stops and returns to putting kisses along his shaft.

"You're teasing me," he says.

"I'm warming you up," she laughs again.

He reaches for the box of condoms on the floor, and rips open the package to use one. He sits up and pulls her close, onto his lap. He buries his face into her the crook of her neck, breathing in her scent.

Cecelia takes him, inch by inch, as she sits on his lap, and the moan that escapes her sets his mind on fire. He pulls her closer to his chest, and grabs the pile of her hip as she starts to rock back and forth against him. She's whining as he tenderly bites into the soft skin of her neck -- leaving a pleasant mark behind in his wake.

He starts to feel unsure of himself, unsure of the position they're in, when Cecelia stops and nestles her nose into his hair. She puts another kiss on the top of his head, and they sit there for a moment -- barely moving, except for the rising and falling of their breathing.

Simon initiates the next movement, where he begins to thrust into her. One hand behind him among the pillows to balance him, the other holding her hip to keep her steady, he's looking into her face as she puts her hands on his shoulders. She begins to rock back and forth again, finding a rhythm with him, and as she does, she puts her hands behind her head, fanning out her hair as she seems to dance on top of him.

He has a brief moment of feeling foolish -- in believing she looks like some ethereal spirit, or a nymph. Like one of those paintings that he's seen on the walls of great leaders. But his doubts are drowned out by her leaning on him and putting her mouth on his.

They stay in this rhythm for some few moments, until he gently turns her on her back, and settles himself between her legs. He takes one of her feet and kisses it, before he wraps her legs around his waist.

He keeps a steady pace into her, the feeling of pleasure wafting through his body with unfamiliar electricity, his appetite suddenly whetted, and his thrusts become harder. Her moans and whimpers getting louder, more intense, as she touches herself. Simon reaches his hand to massage her sex, and her whole body tenses -- her core grips around him in soft waves. He comes -- intensely, and at the feeling of her, at the sight of her lost in the pleasure of him. A gasp sputters from him at the sensation of satisfaction that takes hold of his mind and body.

She reaches up to him and takes his face in her hands again as she puts her brow to his. His breathing is heavy, and it washes over her damp skin, sending a shiver of cold throughout her.

He lies beside her again that night, as she puts her hand on his chest, and her face into his side. Except this time, he turns to her, to see her -- face on. He usually tries to obscure himself as much as possible, but just for this moment -- just for the time he has left with her, he wants to be seen. Just for now.

Simon lives at her flat for the remaining weeks he has left of leave. He tries not to lean into the fantasy as hard as he wants to -- but when she invites him to the market to get ingredients for dinner, he can't refuse her. He's on edge the entire time -- searching the crowd for anyone who might become a threat, the sinking feeling of waiting for a detonation to occur when there isn't one keeps his eyes fixed on the periphery of the farmer's market. He briefly loses track of her, and he's ready to pry her from the arms of an enemy that isn't present -- he finds her picking fruit from a basket at a vendor's stall. It's the moment he knows he can't ever have a normal life. It's something he's always known, but the image of its reality is materialized as he watches her smell peaches from a distance.

His recall date is approaching faster than he wants it to. As strong as he is, he can't slow Time. Every night when he lies awake in bed, he watches her sleep. With the images of her bedroom, and of her living room, and the breakfast bar with the kettle and well-worn mugs upon it, with the image of her sleeping peacefully, cuddled beneath her blankets beside him, he builds a new place in the dark corners of his mind. Somewhere into which he can retreat when the night gets ugly. When the job gets uglier.

The night before he's recalled, they make love again. He adds the blissful memory to that place in his mind. He holds her tighter, fucks her with an intensity and a desperation he couldn't speak in words; he keeps her as close as he can until the moment he has to give her up.

Cecelia wakes up early the next morning, before dawn, to see him off. His bag is already packed, the coffee is already made, with her mug, full on the counter, just as it always is.

"Will I ever see you again?" she asks.

He stops. He heard her get up, heard her come out of the bedroom, but even still, he was hoping to leave unseen. He doesn't have an answer for her.

"No," he says. He still doesn't look at her.

She stays quiet, but sits at the breakfast bar, where her cup of coffee is waiting for her. He's still in the kitchen, washing the dishes he used to make her breakfast. She sees him put his head down, thoughts flooding themselves behind his brown eyes. But still, he says nothing.

After he finishes leaving no trace of himself in her home, as he readies himself to leave, his duffle bag in hand, his mask and gloves fitted against his skin, he stops before he opens her front door.

"Come here," he tells her.

A part of her hopes that he'll change his mind -- that he'll say he'll be back whenever he gets leave again. But she doubts they will let him go for a very, very long time.

"Look at me."

Her eyes are wet, but she tries to hide it. She does as he says nonetheless.

"If you are ever -- ever -- in trouble..." he pulls a piece of paper from his pocket, "...you send this to this address." On it is written a word: 'MAYFLOWER', along with an encrypted email address. "I will come running." He hands her the paper and she takes it with a trembling hand. "Memorize this. Then burn it. Do you understand?"

She nods as she studies the paper. She tries to hold back her crying, but the harder she tries, the louder she sniffles.

Cecelia wraps her arms around his waist and holds him, just for a moment. Her tears stain his jacket, but she can't bring herself to care. When she lets go, she kisses his mask. She feels him return it, despite the barrier between them.

She watches him leave, before the sun is up. He vanishes from her life as quickly as he entered it.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

TEN YEARS LATER

Ghost is preparing to ship out on an assignment to Eastern Europe with the rest of the 141 in two weeks. He and MacTavish are paired together to arrive first before the rest of the crew. They are currently both in England, going over the plans for the next assignment.

He sold his flat a long time ago, he no longer has permanent residence in England. He rents out places in cash when he needs a temporary place to stay. Simon and Soap are staying together while they prepare, then they will fly out to the drop zone.

As Simon prepares for the next assignment, he receives a transmission on an encrypted email. It is reserved only for emergent scenarios, usually used by his other teammates or superiors when an assignment goes sideways. As he opens the encrypted message, he anticipates that he and Soap will have to ship out sooner than expected.

The message reads:

'MAYFLOWER'

He gave this specific code only to Cecelia. No others have it. He remembers his promise.

In the ten years since their separation, he has not heard from Cecelia, nor has he sought her out in the time he is on homeland. But he thinks about her in moments when the dark begins to suffocate him. He thinks about her during the springtime, and when the world comes alive again. He shares this with no one. Not even Soap. Now, he might have to.

MacTavish sees Simon gearing up, as if he were ready to leave for the hanger at any moment. "You goin' somewhere without me, Lt.?"

Simon stops, and deliberates. A gnawing feeling tells him not to confide in a teammate again -- to not make the same mistake he did with Sparks and Washington. But when he turns and looks Soap in the eye, he knows that honesty -- even obfuscated honesty -- is what will help Cecelia in that moment. "You trust me?"

He tells Soap to pack as they talk, and he debriefs his partner with as little information he can get away with: he promised a woman a decade ago that if she ever needed help, he'd come running. She was calling in the favor.

"What's so special about this woman, then?" Soap asks.

They're driving to the location from which the message was sent -- a house in Manchester, that was bought under her name. She moved, then, he thinks -- from a flat to a house, he hopes she's doing well enough for herself. And whatever family she might have. It would be foolish to think she wasn't married with kids by now. It was just statistics.

"Lt.?"

Ghost takes a breath, as silently as he can, before he answers: "She helped me out. Just returning the favor." It's as close to honesty as MacTavish was going to get for now -- if ever.

The house is visibly disturbed by the time they get there -- the front door is broken, there are signs of a struggle in the living room. There are no police on the scene, neighbors seem to mind their own business. Simon takes the front of the house, while Soap takes the rear. Every room he enters is clear, the house is empty.

"You seeing anything, Lt.?"

"Negative," Ghost answers. "The house is clear."

"I'm doing a perimeter sweep," Soap says.

"Report back."

"Copy."

Ghost tries to piece together what happened as he steps through the chaos that transpired -- they entered through the front door, and tossed the entire place. Desks and dressers tossed; a file cabinet thrown on its side and emptied. The nightstand in the master bedroom rifled through, the closets emptied. There's a child's room adjacent to the master bedroom -- also tossed and empty. A child’s bedroom…It was just the statistical probability that she'd moved on, he reminds himself.

A noise comes from the secondary bathroom in the hallway, and Ghost raises his weapon. He pushes the door to the bathroom open and sees nothing. He prods at the shower curtain — nothing.

There's a linen closet. He raises the rifle, stands to the side of the door, and opens it -- waiting to hear a barrage of gunfire. But there was nothing. He sees the interior of the linen closet in the bathroom mirror:

A child is hiding inside of it, huddled with her hands over her head.

"Perimeter check," he radios Soap.

"Clear, Lt.. Converging on you now."

He checks her for weapons before he continues. "What happened here?" Ghost asks the child.

She's shaking and looks up at him with terror.

"Your mother called me to help."

"She -- She told me to c-call you."

"You sent the message?"

She nods.

"Do you know who did this?"

She shakes her head.

Ghost lets a silent breath, as he looks around the bathroom again -- even the medicine cabinet was tossed. "Whoever they were, they were looking for something." He lets his rifle fall to his side, and he helps the girl out of the closet. "Are you hurt?"

She shakes her head.

"Was there anyone else in the house?"

"No. Just me and mum."

"Is anyone supposed to come home?"

"No. It's just us."

Soap arrives at Ghost's side, surprised to see the girl. "Casualty?"

"Just shellshocked. Get ‘er a blanket."

MacTavish does as he says, and pulls one from the girl's room. "We're the good guys," he tells her. "Give it a minute, an' when you've had a breath, tell us what you remember." He leads her from the bathroom, to somewhere warmer in the house, careful that she shouldn't step on anything broken on the floor. "D'ye have someone we can call, then? Gram? Da? A friend from school?"

"I -- I don't know."

"Alright, it’s alright. Let's start with somethin' easier, then." He adjusts her blanket and helps her put on a pair of shoes that was left by the doorway. "How 'bout we start with your name? How 'bout that? What's your name, love?"

"My name is Margot."

Simon stops. He looks at the girl, he studies her. She looks much like her mother, yet a part of him thinks he saw a resemblance of himself. But it’s just his mind playing tricks on him, he insists. It makes no difference anyway.

"Margot. Pretty name, lass, very classy," Soap tells her.

"Call child welfare," Simon says.

"No!" Margot turns and stops him.

"It's only temporary -- 'til we find your mother," Soap tells her.

"No --"

“This isn’t a discussion," Simon snaps.

Soap looks at the Lieutenant, knowing him well enough to hear something other than the weight of the mission beneath the surface of his voice. He looks back at the girl, who keeps trying to take off her blanket, and ties it around her. "Like a cape," he tells her. "We're very good at what we do, lass. You'll be back with your mother in no time."

"You're not listening!" the girl finally says, she stands, facing Simon. "I don't know who they were," she tells him, still trembling, "but I know what they were looking for."

The girl doesn't seem to be intimidated by either him or Soap, and he finds it unusual. That sinking suspicion settles itself at the forefront of his mind, and he keeps it in check. "What were they looking for?"

"They said -- they said they were looking for something my uncle gave my mum." Tears are coming back to her, and she cowers at the feeling of guilt.

"The necklace?" Simon asks.

"But she doesn't have it. She gave it to me." She pulls out the gold pendant from beneath her shirt.

"Sir, can we have a word?" It's more of a demand from Soap, rather than a request and he turns to Margot. "Don't take off the cape." He pulls Ghost to the side, and speaks as quietly as he can, hoping not to scare the girl: "They're gonna find her eventually. I don't think child welfare is the best option for her."

Simon still hasn't taken his eyes off of Margot, he's still studying her -- her features, her nose, her eyes. She has brown eyes, but so does her mother. Even if his suspicion is true, it still doesn't mean anything, he convinces himself. He wouldn’t be able to be there for her in any way that matters, he tells himself.

"We can offer her better protection. We track the bastards, neutralize the threat, and get her mother back. We send her into foster care, she's a sitting target once they realize her mother doesn't have what they want."

He hates it when Soap is right.

Finally, he looks at his partner, and they mobilize. Soap helps Margot pack a bag out of what remnants of clothes and necessities are strewn all over the house. Simon is standing in the master bedroom, he tells himself he's looking for any sign of what the attackers were after, but he knows it's a lie. He wants to see what has become of Cecelia. But he knows he shouldn't linger.

They regroup at the house Soap and Ghost are renting. Simon asks Margot to hand over the necklace; she does, although she hesitates for a moment, a thought crossing her mind that it might be the only thing of her mother's she'll have left when this is all over.

"I'll give it back," he tells her.

She looks up at him, into his eyes -- he's still wearing that balaclava and all his gear. The greasepaint obscures the depth of his eyes, but she can see their glint in the low light of the living room. She's trusting him as much as he's trusting her. She gives him the necklace.

Simon holds it in the center of his gloved hand -- it looks no different than any other pendant one might find at a jewellry store. It was a plain circle, with no ornamentation, except for an asymmetrical raised texture in the center. He turns it over, there's no stamp indicating the carat or quality.

"All that trouble o'er a necklace?" Soap asks, looking over Simon's shoulder at the small thing.

"She said it was the last thing she ever got from her brother," Simon tells him. "She tell you anything else about him?" he asks Margot.

She shrugs somewhat, still clinging to the blanket around her shoulders. "He was in the Navy. But he died, though. I never met him."

Simon shakes his head once. "No, you wouldn't've. He died overseas, she said. Training mission gone wrong. MacTavish, check records," he tells Soap. "We find out what he was doing when he died, we might find out who's after this little bugger."

The adrenaline finally wears off, and Margot crashes. She's asleep in the master bedroom, curled underneath the blankets, still terrified, even in her sleep. Simon can see it -- her shoulders are tense, her head is tucked, her breathing is rapid. He wonders if every Riley is cursed with poor sleep.

Soap isn't having any more of his bullshit. They're talking in the other bedroom, while combing through personnel records and calling in favors to find out more about the 'training exercise' Cecelia's brother was involved in.

They haven't spoken in a while, which is unusual for Soap -- the air almost feels absent without his gabbing. But Simon knows he isn't being silent for courtesy's sake, Soap is irritated with him.

"Is she yours?" he finally asks, without looking up.

But Simon looks at him, unsure how to reply. Unsure of the answer -- but certain all the same. He doesn't reply for a long time, and Soap doesn't push him; even no answer is an answer.

Simon looks back at his laptop. "She's the right age."

They don't say anything for a while more. Simon is finding it difficult to concentrate, but he compartmentalizes, until Soap interrupts his thoughts again.

"You know I've got your back."

His other teammates, Sparks and Washington, said the same thing. Until they were taken, and turned. Until his family was all murdered in cold blood during Christmastime. He tries to tell himself it's not the same -- the present isn't the past. Yet, the past has a funny way of repeating itself.

He wasn't turned by the torture inflicted upon him, he tells himself. He'd like to think MacTavish wouldn't be, either, whether or not it's true.

"I know, Johnny," he says.

"You need your rest," Soap tells him. "I'll take watch and keep looking. You get some shut eye." He leaves the bedroom and sets up in the living room.

He tries to sleep -- he falls into a restless slumber. It feels like he's closed his eyes for only a moment, when Soap comes back into the room to tell him his watch is over.

It's still dark outside. Simon gets up. He checks on Margot.

She's still lying in bed, curled into a ball. But her breathing has changed -- he thinks she might've fallen into a deeper sleep, but he realizes she's awake, she's crying. He's tempted to turn and leave, to give her space, or to absolve himself of vulnerability. But he knows it's not the right thing to do.

"You should be sleeping," he says.

He hears her sniffle. She doesn't move for a while, until she sits up and looks at him. "I tried. I can't."

He sighs and enters the room, closing the door halfway behind him. "What's keeping you awake?" He sits on the edge of her bed.

"I keep...thinking." She wipes her tears on her sleeve.

"About what?"

She's trying not to look weak in front of him, but she can't help it -- she starts crying again. "All I did was hide. Mum told me to hide. But I didn't want to -- But I was scared..."

He doesn't think less of her. He sees a lot of himself in her, from when he was a boy. "Sometimes the best strategy is to hide. You're no good to anyone dead. Especially not to your mother."

Margot settles, taking hiccupped breaths until she can breathe again. "She said you'd come."

"I told her I would."

The crying has passed for now, she doesn't feel like she can anymore. But she likes sitting beside him. She wonders what he looks like -- he's still wearing that balaclava. "Do you sleep with that on?"

"Sometimes."

"Why?"

"So people don't know what I look like. To protect myself."

"That must be annoying."

He scoffs. "Sometimes."

"Mum told me you wear a mask all the time. She told me a lot about you."

Immediate suspicion rises in Simon, and his mind interprets her words as a threat at first. But he proceeds with tempered rationality. "What'd she say?"

"You both loved each other, she said. You have a job that's really dangerous. She talks about you all the time."

It would've been better if Cecelia had forgotten all about him, it would've been easier for him. But to know that she kept him alive, in memory, somehow hurt worse than being forgotten. "She tell you anything else?" he's fishing, and he hopes Margot takes the bait.

She hesitates, she's thinking, debating -- unsure of herself, unsure of what he'll say. "She said...she tells me that you're my dad. Is that really true?"

He's never one to believe something without concrete proof, he's distrustful by nature. But he knows it's true. It's more than conscious, it's something visceral inside of him that knows something better than the doubt at the forefront of his mind. He only nods. "It's true."

Margot sits in silence, thinking.

"I'm going to find your mother," he promises her. "I’m going to make sure both of you are alright." He speaks to her, but also to the family he lost all those years ago: to his mother, to his brother. He has the chance to right the wrongs of the past. To change the future. "Get some sleep."

"What if I can't?"

He takes a deep breath, trying to find some kind of parental guidance to give her. "I don’t sleep good, either. A long time ago, I saw a shrink. He told me to relax your body -- from head to toe. And imagine you're floating in a canoe on a lake, with nothing else around. Don't think about anything else. Just you...in the lake, breathing deeply. Can you do that?"

She nods.

"I'll wake you when it's morning."

He leaves Margot to her rest and continues to search for reasons why Cecelia's brother may have been a target.

He wakes up Soap at dawn. "We've got a lead."

Simon explains that Cecelia's brother, Gabriel, was involved in a classified assignment to infiltrate a weapons dealer syndicate. He was supposed to eliminate the head of the syndicate, and destroy his compound. Gabriel completed his assignment, and eliminated the syndicate head, and burned the compound to the ground. However, the official report states that Gabriel was killed during the raid -- he was killed by his other teammates, for treason, and for turning on his superiors. Simon managed to find a buried statement from another teammate who had been on the mission, which said Gabriel was killed days after the raid, and his body was dumped at the compound after it was destroyed. Gabriel found that the officer in charge of his assignment was supplying a portion of the weapons being sold. The officer was using his team to clean up evidence of his involvement in the syndicate.

The officer buried anyone else who knew the truth. 

Simon and Soap conclude the necklace must have something else to it, that Gabriel had to have sent it to for a reason. Simon examines the ridge in the center; he finds that the circular pendant is made with two pendants flat pieces soldered together. He halves it with a knife, jimmying the pendant open like an oyster. Inside, is a micro-SD card.

"That's what they were after."

"Obair mhór, Gabriel," Soap mutters.

"Mum's necklace..." Margot stares at its pieces in Simon's hand as she comes out of the bedroom.

"It was for a good cause," Simon says.

"But why --" Soap asks. "Why after all this time? Why go after it now?"

"The good Admiral is up for a political promotion. He's trying to clean house."

"So the Admiral finds out that Gabriel had a contingency, and he knows that the last contact Gabriel had was with his sister. So he puts the pieces together, figuring she knows more than she's saying."

"We need to find her. Now."

They're holding Cecelia at an abandoned farmhouse. It takes them thirty-six hours to track her down, by nightfall Ghost and Soap are converging on the target. Margot is left behind, locked inside their safehouse, with the doors and windows fortified.

They're outnumbered, but they have the element of surprise. Quietly, they close in on the farmhouse from opposite directions, using blades to wound and eliminate the men in their way, utilizing the ignorance of their presence to its maximum capability. Until an enemy fires his rifle, and the secrecy is over.

Ghost breaches the front of the house, firing two shots into the guard at the other side of the door -- chest and throat. He pushes the body to the side, and crouches, hearing more men on their way. He takes cover against the corner of a hallway, and fires two shots into the face of the next assailant who charges him. He uses the bleeding body as a shield, and moves into the line of fire, feeling the impact of the bullets pierce the corpse in his arms. He fires around the body propped against him, and lands three bullets into the torso of the man in front of him.

He throws the corpse to the floor, and moves into the center of the house. There's a locked bedroom door, and he pushes his blade into the jamb to free the lock. He can hear Soap's bullets from the opposite side of the house.

The lock breaks, and Ghost stands to the side of the door as he opens it -- he enters with his rifle raised. There are no men inside the room.

Cecelia is tied to a chair in the center.

"I've got eyes on the target," he radios Soap.

"Copy, Lt.. Three more guards inbound on the east of the complex."

"Copy." Simon cuts her bonds, and helps her stand. "We need to move. Can you walk?"

"Yes," she says, panting.

Ghost has one arm around her, practically pulling her out of the house as he rendezvous with Soap.

Soap covers them as the two limp off the complex -- into the cover of a copse in the distance. Their vehicle is waiting for them there, and Ghost puts Cecelia in the back, pushing her head down beneath the seats. Bullets collide with the metal sides of the doors, and Ghost returns fire as Soap jumps into the driver's seat and finds cover in the trees.

"They won't follow us," Ghost says.

"You'd better be right."

"Margot -- Where's Margot?"

"I got her -- She's alright."

"I'm sorry --" Cecelia says, out of breath.

Simon shakes his head. "Don't be."

They get back to their safehouse, and Margot is holed up in the bedroom until she hears the door. Simon gave her a pocket knife, and she's ready to use it -- when she hears her mother's voice.

"Mum!" she runs out of the bedroom, into her mother's arms.

Cecelia holds her tight. Simon only watches, and glances to Johnny when he puts a hand on his shoulder. He feels that out-of-place sensation once more, seeing mother and daughter embrace. Cecelia is checking Margot over, holding her small face in her hands, wiping away her tears. Simon doesn't know what to do with himself. He leaves them to their reunion. He hides -- in the other bedroom.

Later, he's triaging Cecelia's wounds. She's scraped up, she's got a black eye. The sight of it sends a rage through him that he can't put into words.

"I wanted to tell you," she says.

"I know."

He's bandaging her wrist, but he can't look at her. It's the same dance between them as it was a decade ago. Somehow, it feels like home.

"I don't know what they wanted from me," she tells him.

"I do. Your brother was a smart man. He knew he couldn't trust anyone above him. So he sent the intel he gathered to the one person he could trust. You." He looks up at her.

"What are you going to do with it?"

He gently puts her hand in her lap. "I'm going to do...what I wish I could've done many years ago." He grinds his teeth, and swallows. "I'm going to expose the bloody bastard for what he is: a traitor."

Simon arrives at the Admiral's office the next day. The Admiral is not expecting him, but he is aware of Ghost's reputation, and it precedes him. The Admiral has no reason to suspect Ghost is behind the attack on his off-books operation the previous night. As far as he's concerned, Ghost is scheduled to ship out in less than a fortnight, and he believes his visit has something to do with the upcoming mission.

"What can I do for you, Lieutenant?"

Simon chooses his words carefully. Everything he wants to say -- everything he's endured at the hands of men without honor -- floods to the surface of his stomach, to the surface of his face, and he holds the man's eyesight with a sharp edge of hatred.

He's kneading his fists open and closed as he stands there, still trying to get himself to speak. "I want to know if it was worth it."

"I'm sorry?" the Admiral scoffs, bemused and insulted.

"You're not sorry now. But you will be. Before that -- I want to know if it was worth it. The money. The job. The commendations. How many lives was it worth to you?"

The Admiral now realizes it was him who attacked the farmhouse the night before. His face grows hard, and he narrows his eyes. "I'd tread carefully if I were you, Lieutenant. Your reputation can only protect you so far, before enemies in high places turn on you."

"Was it! Worth it!" Simon yells. "You pricks -- who decide who lives and dies, who decide who turns on who -- you pricks, who let the job lead you to believe that you're God," he points. His face burns, his throat hurts. Memories claw their way to the front of his mind, just like he clawed his way out of Vernon's grave.

"If you kill me, you will be hunted for the rest of your life."

Simon shakes his head. "I'm not gonna kill you. You're not worth my bullets. I'm going to watch...as the world tears you apart. As you lose...everything."

The Admiral scoffs again, and moves towards his desk, where his service weapon lies locked in a drawer. "I doubt that. Surely, you didn't think you could come here and threaten me, and get away unscathed." He loads the chamber, and aims the barrel at Ghost's chest.

Simon doesn't flinch.

"Where is the SD card?" the Admiral asks.

"I've already given it to the press."

Military police storm the office, and take the Admiral into custody.

Ghost and Soap are taken off their upcoming assignment, they're needed for debriefing on the scandal that is unfolding regarding the Admiral. Cecelia and Margot are also asked to give account of what happened. The doors of their home are repaired, and they're left to pick up the pieces -- figuratively and literally.

Three weeks have passed; the trial is still in preparation stages; Margot is back at school, and Cecelia has set up therapy for her. Simon encourages her to be seen by a shrink, herself. She refuses, and he pushes her, telling her he'll take her himself if he has to.

"This feels familiar," Simon says, as he helps rehang a painting in her living room.

"Let's hope it never feels familiar again."

He wants to laugh, but he can't. He just shakes his head, and straightens the frame. "I'll be back to check on you tomorrow."

"Wait -- can't I make you a cup of tea?"

It's the offer that got his heart into trouble in the first place. But he still can't say no -- the pause he gives, gives her enough time to head to the kitchen, where she boils some water, and hands him a well-worn mug of tea. The good kind.

He stays with them for several weeks. Weeks turn to months. He tries not to give into the fantasy. Cecelia knows as well as he does, that he can't stay. Even if he wants to.

He wants to.

He has too many enemies. If he retires, if he gives into the dream, it will only put targets on their backs. Cecelia knows. She doesn't fight him on it.

"Just...don't let another decade go by...before I see you again," she tells him.

"I won't." He has her hands in his, pressed to his mouth. He's getting ready to leave, a new assignment is waiting for him on the other side of the door, and for the first time -- ever -- he feels human enough to wish there was nothing waiting for him. No assignment. No dossier. He feels human enough to wish — for anything at all. Even a family.

He takes a deep breath, and lets go of her hands. He pulls from his pocket an envelope filled to the brim with money, an accumulation of many years' worth of combat pay. "Use this. For her. Anything she needs -- anything at all. You get it for her, with this. Get her into a good school, get her an education -- don't let her do what I do. Promise me."

"I promise."

He kisses her, and turns to Margot's bedroom to say goodbye. She's holed up there -- she doesn't understand why he has to leave. He doesn't think she ever will. He doesn't understand it fully, himself.

Simon sits on the edge of her bed. He doesn't know what else to say.

"Will we ever see you again?" she asks.

"You can't get rid of me that easy, love."

She crawls to him, and embraces him.

Something flips inside of him, feeling her arms around him. His own child -- the bone of his bone, the flesh of his flesh. A weight sinks into his heart, and he takes a deep breath, suddenly feeling like it's the first and only breath he's ever taken. He puts a kiss on the top of her head, and they linger there for a long while.

When he, at last, pulls away to leave, she follows him. "Goodbye, Dad."

It's a searing knife wound to the center of him. But he turns and touches her face. "Goodbye, love."

Simon leaves, seen off by the two at their doorstep.

It's a home he can return to. Over, and over again. A feeling, and a place -- people who welcome him. Where his bed is always warm, where arms wrap around him and the blood washes down the drain. And where December never hurts as much.

[lenaellsi]

“Crowley is still an angel deep down” “Crowley is more of an angel than any of the archangels” “Crowley was only cast out because he needed to play his part in Armageddon, he's not a real demon” “Aziraphale wants to rebuild Heaven to be more like Crowley because he’s what an angel should be” no. Stop it. This is exactly where Aziraphale went wrong.

Crowley is 100% a demon. He's not actually a bit of an angel, and he's not cosmically better than any of the other demons we see in the series. He's much less vicious than most of them, yeah, but he's also much less vicious than most of the angels, because how “nice” a celestial being is has nothing to do with which side they're technically on. Crowley's kindness comes from him doing his best to help people despite the hurt he's suffered himself, not any sort of inherent residual or earned holiness. He was cast out just like the rest of the demons, and that's an important part of his history that shouldn't be minimized, excused, or, critically, 'corrected.'

Being angelic is not a positive or negative trait in the Good Omens universe. It's a species descriptor. Saying that Crowley is still an angel deep down because he helps people is an in-character thing for Aziraphale to think, certainly--Job and the final fifteen showed that in the worst possible way--but it's not something Crowley would ever react well to, and it's the main source of conflict in the entire "appoint you to be an angel" fiasco.

We know that Aziraphale thinks Crowley's fall was an injustice, but why? Well, because Crowley is actually Good, which means his fall was a mistake, or a test, or a regrettable error in judgment, or…something. Ineffable. Etc. The point is, he’s special, much better than those other demons, and if they can fix him and make him an angel again, everything will be fine! (So once Job's trials are over, everything will be restored to him? Praise be!) Aziraphale has to believe that Crowley's better traits come from traces of the angel he used to know and not the demon he's known for 6,000 years, because that’s how he can rationalize his incorrect view of Heaven as The Source Of Truth And Light And Good with his complicated feelings about Crowley's fall.

But Crowley's fall was not an injustice because he's actually a Good Person who didn't deserve it. Crowley's fall was an injustice because the entire system of dividing people into Good (obedient) and Bad (rebellious) is bullshit. Crowley is not an unfortunate exception to God's benevolence, he is a particularly sympathetic example of God's cruelty.

And really, Crowley doesn't behave at all like an angel, especially when he's at his best. All of the things that he's done that we as the audience consider Good are things that Heaven has directly opposed. (See: saving the goats and children in defiance of God in S2E2, convincing Aziraphale to give money to Elspeth despite Heaven's views on the "virtues of poverty" in S2E3, speaking out against the flood and the crucifixion in S1E3, tempting Aziraphale to enjoy earthly pleasures because he thinks they'll make him happy, stopping Armageddon.)

Heaven as an institution has never been about helping humanity. And that's not an issue of leadership, as Aziraphale seems to think--it's by design. Aziraphale's first official act as an angel toward humanity was to literally throw them to the lions. Giving them the sword wasn't him acting like an angel, it was just him being himself. Heaven doesn't care about humans. It's not supposed to. It's supposed to win the war against Hell, with humans as chess pieces at best and collateral damage at worst.

Yes, it's easier to think that there are forces that are supposed to be fundamentally good. It's easier to think that Aziraphale is going to show those mean archangels and the Metatron what’s coming to them and reform Heaven into what it "should" be, and that God is actually super chill and watching all of this while shipping ineffable husbands and cheering for them the whole way. And of course it's easier to take Crowley, who Aziraphale (and the audience) adores, and say that he deserves to be on the Good team much more than all those angels and demons that we don’t like. But that's not how it works. People are more complicated than that, even celestial beings.

Crowley is a demon, and the tragedy of his character is not that he's secretly a good guy who is being forced to be evil; the tragedy is that he's lived his whole life stuck between two institutional forces that are both equally hostile to the love he feels for the universe and the beings in it. There are no good and bad guys. There are no "right people." Every angel, demon, and human is capable of hurting or helping others based on their choices. That is, in fact, the entire fucking point.

[dunmeshistash]

Do you know where the “mithrun is the most grizzed masculine elf take” comes from. All I think about is the changeling thing but no one calls Marcille the most masculine elf for being ripped as an orc compared to Tade. Or that he trains a lot, which is also not an inherent masculine thing. To me Mithrun doesn’t really look different to any other (male) elf we see. Is it from the extra’s or something?

Yes that take comes from the changeling transformations of both Mithrun and Senshi. The joke is the Senshi is the "most femme dwarf" and Mithrun the "most masc elf" in contrast with how they look in their original forms

I do think the joke kinda got out of control in the game of telephone that fandom is, instead of a fun observation of how we might perceive Mithrun more feminine than he is and Senshi more masculine than he is due to our own biases based on their races it got taken way too seriously as "the only true and correct interpretation"

I don't think Mithrun is especially masculine or feminine when it comes to his personality, I understand some people have been peeved by others making him maybe too meek/girly compared to canon but I feel like the response of making him way more aggressive/manly than canon is just as inaccurate and it's kinda upsetting when I see "fandom vs (my interpretation of canon) canon" as if they're any more right for going to the extreme opposite

We don't really know if Mithrun is specially "masculine" for an elf either, the only elf that we know is especially "masc" is Otta, and we only know cause her bio says even elves mistake her for a man (I think for most of us she looks as androgynous as the others)

Here's a post discussing elf gender presentation more in depth if you're interested in the subject but all we know is that Mithrun works out a lot and is very muscular (which signals 'manlyness' for us but might not for elves) there isn't much that point out to him being especially manly or especially feminine compared to other male elves. He also has lost most of his desires and doesn't express his preferences much so I think it's safe to assume he doesn't really pick how he presents himself (clothing and such).

Other than that and being stoic (is that a super manly trait?) Mithrun is pretty average I think. He's also still super cute even as a tallman (as if looking manly would stop you from being cute)

But another trait of him that seem to make people read him as "super manly" it's that sometimes Mithrun is scary and aggressive, I'm not even going into why that's bad (correlating aggressiveness with manliness is uh…. not great….) not even to mention he only acts that way when he's triggered by wanting to take revenge on the demon, otherwise he seems to avoid hurting others.

Related to the "Mithrun is a super manly elf" take I've even seen people argue that drawing him looking too "cute" and small is incorrect (probably just because of his tallman self) but that's how Kui draws him herself.

I don't understand why correct others for drawing him the same way his creator does, he's designed to look this way, there's nothing to "fix" about his original design either (nothing wrong with drawing him in a way that appeals to you more tho, fanart is fanart just don't harass other people)

Anyway just to stress the point that he is very average let's compare him to Lycion and Pattadol

The average height for elves is 155 for males and 150 for females Mithrun is 155cm, Lycion is 170cm and Pattadol is 160cm, they're both taller and have a sturdier looking builds than Mithrun

Kui often draws Pattadol specially with a sturdier build than Mithrun actually

So no he's not the most buff biggest elf ever in any sense (although he IS a muscular elf), and I don't think the changeling transformations are too objective since they're magic. For example Pattadol as a human is pretty average even tho she's big compared to other elves (not to mention Senshi half-foot who has a huge beard that half-foots don't seem to be able to grow)

[toddthinkeritis]

not incredibly well-worded but what makes the current way bruce is portrayed so not compelling to me is the way that he's always (in the words of my friend) rewarded for being wrong. it's not that bruce isn't allowed to be self-destructive post-jaybin death, or bruce isn't allowed to have control issues or inherent biases, it's not that bruce isn't allowed to be self-righteous or victim blame jaybin. it's that the narrative (formed by dc editorial team and writers) agrees with bruce and praises him, rewards him for it.

saying this mostly in the light of.. whatever the fuck that 'when robins come pre-broken' is. i don't know what they're thinking, honestly, about that one. it makes bruce look even worse than he already is, especially the panels with alfred where alfred tells him he's just telling bruce 'the truth' and 'the truth' is that 'bruce is an optimist, while jason doesn't want and can't be shown light.' (paraphrased and summarized)

the narrative, through alfred, coddles bruce and tells him it's okay sweetie, you made a mistake, it's not you, you're not a mistake, it's the mistake, separate from you and your actions. because robins come pre-broken, sometimes... right? even the way the words are said 'richard was exceptional, jason is DEEPLY troubled' sound like pre-fed lines being parroted. very intentional. i don't even know if the writer chose that or the editorial told the writer to script it that way.

nevermind the fact that that's not what happens at all. i don't like starlin's run, but even in starlin's run, bruce is shown to 'make a mistake' in the form of 'picking up another child soldier.' it's recognized and then punished, the punishment being jason's death. and when starlin out of all people had better writing than whatever this story is... that's when i know the story isn't even worth reading or contemplating about. despite the very banger very cute art. it's a shame tbh.

i've been thinking for a while that even with the... odd and very questionable actions modern bruce has committed, from not allowing his kids to have a life outside vigilantism to like, motherfucking lobotomy, maybe he would be more compelling to me, more interesting and even more beloved if these actions and flaws were presented by the narrative in a way that's more.. neutral? and less biased towards making bruce seem the most correct and right and kind and morally just and strong and smart and tragic and victimized? like, i don't need to be told that it's negative. the narrative just needs to be more neutral.

he would be far more compelling, because maybe then bruce would come across as a guy who's constantly trying, trying so fucking hard whether with the kids he picks up or his mission in vigilantism... and is also wrong, often failing and so on. maybe then his successes would resonate stronger and despite his many privileges that i don't have, maybe i'd relate to him more. maybe it'll be a lesson in how love and care don't always show up sweet, but that it'll have its own values anyway. maybe it'll be a message about compromising and reaching an understanding and letting past ghosts rest despite current hurts.

but then i also realize that maybe someone in the dc team realizes that bruce would be perceived negatively even if the narrative stayed neutral. like, if the narrative doesn't side with him and actively excuses his actions, rewards his behaviors, coddles him, then someone would maybe notice that hitting your kids is bad actually. or taking in a kid while being under-prepared for it, as a replacement for your other kid that you drove away, is bad actually. which he did more than once, btw.

so yeah. i guess for doylist reasons, the dc team knows bruce has to be beloved by the narrative.

just that maybe not all of the audience will eat up that narrative blindly.

[teriri-sayes]

Reactions to The Light's Chapter 429

Brief summary: CJG has been purified. Clopeh's words and actions make the villagers mistake Cale for... a god. Cale figures out what the last power of GoC is.

==========

First off, Happy 7th Anniversary! Such a long time, huh? Author-nim, when is this going to end? I've been stuck reading this series for 6 years now. 😂 Unfortunately, there is no author's note regarding the anniversary, but the Korean fans congratulated the author in the comments section.

On to the chapter... CJG's purification was over, and his appearance had gone back to normal. However, he was still asleep, and had to be carried back with a stretcher, so no talk with CJG for now.

What was so funny was Clopeh's actions in the chapter. 🤣🤣🤣

The granddaughter poked her head out of her grandfather's arms and nudged Clopeh. “Is he a priest, too?” “Oh, child, of course he is a priest-” Old Tedrick started to answer, but stopped. “No, no. He is not a priest.” The old man's gaze turned to Clopeh. Clopeh smiled a gentle smile and said. “Not a priest, not a pope, not a saint. He is none of these.” His thoughts were firm. 'You will be using this purifying power a lot in the future, Cale-nim.' And so it was. The God of Chaos cult should not be the beneficiary. It belongs to Cale alone. It is His doing. Clopeh spoke the truth without exaggeration. “He simply moves according to his own will. He doesn't believe in or follow any gods.” Cale Henituse is such a man. Such a hero. He is a legend. Because. “And I am following him.” I am his follower. Clopeh's words were full of sincerity. “Ah.” Former village chief Tedrick gasped. A man of the people. He doesn't believe in any gods, he's no priest or anything. He simply lives by his own will. And yet the man in front of him, dressed in priest robes and looking more like a priest than anyone else, believes in that man and follows him. 'The one he believes in is-' …God. Yes, God.

Clopeh really spreading Caleism to the villagers! 🤣🤣🤣 God Cale misunderstanding strikes again! 🤣🤣🤣

The warmth that enveloped us, the power that reminded us of happiness. That gray color. “…Demon God…….” The old man blurted out, then paused. “What?” Clopeh tilted his head and looked at him as if he did not understand. “Oh, no!” The old man hurriedly tried to contain his words. But everyone had heard. And Clopeh just smiled and said. “I see. Whatever you have to say, please feel free.” Aurora, who was watching all of this, thought to herself. 'Is it okay to pass like this?' Clopeh Sekka. I don't know what that guy just did. But it was too vague to do anything about it now. It wasn't that he was lying, or that his behavior was bad. On the contrary, he was sincere and kind. “Hmm.” Aurora decided to wait and see. 'Demon God.' Now that the word was mentioned, she had to be careful. I don't want to cause any unnecessary misunderstandings in the village. 'At least it happened within the village, so we can stop any misunderstandings quickly.' Aurora was relieved that it was within the village. And Clopeh- “Fufu.” A shallow chuckle escaped his lips as he looked at the crimson sky.

Last time, it was the God of Harmony, and now it was Demon God?! 🤣🤣🤣 Cale, your god titles keep increasing! 🤣🤣🤣

And Aurora... I think you just planted a 🚩flag. This is definitely going to spread outside the village. 😂😂😂 I mean, just look at Clopeh's laughter. 🤣🤣🤣

The chant/prayer for the Purification of Chaos was interesting.

What was created would soon be gone. As it was inherent from the beginning. Just as you were born. Return to your inborn appearance.

Cale noticed the emphasis on the word "beginning." Even the holy land of GoC was called the Primordial Night/Night of Beginning. And when he uttered the word "beginning", a certain parchment of GoC would vibrate. Thus, Cale figured out that the 5th unknown power of GoC was the "Beginning of Chaos."

Ending Remarks So he would be Demon God Cale in the Demon Realm? Good luck with your slacker life dream, Cale. 😂 Next chapter would probably be the beginning of the search for both CJS and Sui Khan. That talk with CJG? Delayed like Cale's talk with the Molans too. 🙄

[silverskye13]

im OBSESSED with you saying Xisuma's fatal flaw would be arrogance, i never would have thought of it and it tickles my lizard brain. could you go into more details about that vibe?

It's a couple things! Granted, I haven't watched Xisuma regularly in about a year, so I've atrophied a bit when it comes to him and his personality. Take what I say with a grain of salt.

I want to note that I don't mean arrogance in the sense that he thinks he's inherently better than people. He tries really hard not to do that -- I've listened to a few of his vods, and a lot of them have to do with deconstructing his worldview, changing assumptions he's made about people and politics, walking back and forth down a line of thought until eventually he settles somewhere on that road.

But during those reconstructions, I noticed they generally came from very heavy assumptions first, things he says with his full chest, and then has to walk back. There is a certain amount of arrogance in assuming you know what you're talking about, when you have only a handful of facts and perspectives at your disposal. This makes the vods interesting. He can talk back and forth with his audience about something he's learning about, and it becomes entertaining watching people discuss with him, and watching his opinion on that thing actively change. But that doesn't change the fact that he tends to start with: "So I saw this thing recently, and I think it's good/bad/morally ambiguous, and here is why."

There is a certain amount of arrogance in assuming you know something correctly automatically.

Which is, actually, my second reason for choosing arrogance. It seems like a lot of Xisuma's "derp" moments, his simple and silly mistakes that he makes when making machines or doing building, etc, stem from moments of arrogance. He assumes he has done something right, doesn't double check it, and then later when it breaks, he figures out something small and simple has gone wrong. Most of the time, this is funny. Look, Xisuma has made a silly mistake again! But sometimes these simple mistakes add hours of frustration, cause complete rebuilds of parts of a structure or machine, or inconvenience other people. It gets harder to justify, then, that little moment of, "No I'm sure it's fine. I won't double check."

There is an amount of arrogance in assuming you know something correctly automatically.

He is very proficient. He is very good at checking himself when the moment strikes him. But he often forgets to make that check, or dismisses the need for that check, only for it to come back for him. And, if we're talking about Fatal Flaws, the idea that there is something you do repeatedly that builds, until eventually it's your undoing, I think it would be those small moments of assumption and arrogance. One day, they come back around.

[lenaboskow]

i'm bored at work so here's an updated list of everything tommy kinard has ever said or done that makes him a bad person who hasn't changed/learned from his mistakes (even if he's not being inherently/explicitly racist anymore) (before you come at me for saying people can change, here's my previous pinned post from 7x05 that explains how he hasn't. i go into it more here about the back half of the season, but all of these points still stand)

season two

chimney begins

the first thing tommy says to/about chimney is "did you forget to tip the delivery driver?". if it wasn't for the fact that they had asian food delivered and chimney is asian, this could've been passed off, but instead they chose to have the first act of racism/general harassment be done by tommy, not the racist captain.

then when they return from a call and see chimney dutifully cleaning, tommy says to chimney: "you're still here?". not inherently racist, but still rude

we get some montages of chimney being left out/harrasef, and tommy is always at the forefront. it culminates in the locker room scene where tommy says "i don't think about you enough to hate you", which again isn't inherently racist but it is rude.

at the end, the only way chimney manages to earn a semblance of respect from tommy is by saving his life, which is fucked up. you shouldn't have to save someone's life to he treated with dignity. but fine, maybe tommy learned his lesson, right?

wrong

hen begins

at the beginning, tommy, chimney, gerrard, and a few others are standing up in the loft while hen walks in. gerrard says a few racist/sexist words, and chim stands up for her. tommy just stands there, not even looking like he might want to say something. not saying something when it happens is almost as bad as doing, and obviously chimney, who'd been there a shorter time, was brave enough to stand up for her.

then tommy, during a meal, tommy says about hen: "new york bitchiness is a compliment?". there's no non sexist explanation for this comment

actually that entire meal, he ignores chimney's attempts move the conversation away, which says a lot

again, general enabling of the racism and sexism

during hen's "see me" speech, tommy looks pissed off to be there, and then proceeds to look annoyed when he apologizes to her at the end of the episode (if you can even call it that)

post begins episodes

now, we don't know a whole lot about how hen and chimney interacted with tommy after the events of their begins episodes, but we do know they weren't close enough to keep in touch after. chimney loses touch for two years immediately after he leaves, and by season seven hen forgot that tommy worked at harbor. i don't know about you, but that doesn't seem like behavior for people who worked closely for ten years.

season seven

7x04

this episode was from buck's pov, so it's actually the time where tommy is the most tolerable. that doesn't mean he doesn't have his moments, though:

calling buck "kid" and "evan" is a weird way to introduce a love interest. tommy calling him "kid" shows that tommy is aware of the age difference, which as i explain here is at least the same as buck and abby's (and here why that screenshot of tim saying he's 40 is irrelevant). also, tommy calls buck "evan" with no on screen explanation, and we know that lou was explicitly told tommy isn't "allowed" to call him buck. you know the only other characters who aren't allowed to call him buck? his parents. that's all I'll say.

we don't really see much of tommy again until the basketball scene, and then it's focused on buck and eddie anyways, so the next time we see him and buck really interact is the loft scene (which is telling about who buck was trying to get the attention of, but that's a different conversation). in this scene, tommy makes a condescending remark about how "we weren't trying to make you feel left out" and "eddie can have more than one friend", which... again, brings us back to the age difference because it sounds like (in context) that tommy is reprimanding a child. having them kiss right after that was definitely an interesting choice (in terms of their relationship)

7x05

oh the date. i have so many feelings about this. we know that tommy knows buck isn't out, because buck told maddie they purposely picked an out of the way spot, and despite the face tommy made at the comment, he didn't seem surprised when buck told him it was his "first date with a dude" (it seemed more like a "i already know this, you don't have to repeat it" face). because of this, the way tommy acted when eddie showed up and freaked buck out has no excuse. the closet comment? even if tommy didn't know buck wasn't out and decided he didn't want to date someone who wasn't out, he shouldn't have made that comment knowing it could out buck to his best friend, who he clearly wasn't ready to tell. lucky for buck, eddie's an idiot (affectionate) with a one track mind (buck) and didn't register the comment.

then we have tommy leaving buck at the curb. leaving the date isn't the problem, it's the fact that he didn't tell buck until he got in the uber, which obviously upset buck (though he was admittedly more upset over lying to eddie). the rest of the episode is spent on buck coming out to eddie, and we don't see tommy again until buck is apologizing for the date, which... why should buck have to apologize for not being ready to come out? buck did nothing wrong on the date. if you just figured out you were queer and hadn't had the chance to tell your best friend before they accidentally crashed your date, you'd react the same way, don't try to tell me otherwise. it was tommy who should've apologized, plain and simple.

7x06

the bachelor party. tommy's excuse for not dressing up made no sense to me... he was obviously going to have to change anyways, so why not put in a little effort for your date? i see people saying that only eddie put effort in, but henren was dressed too, just more subtly. tommy chose not to dress up, and made a half hearted excuse of "they had henleys in the 80s" (which you would know, wouldn't you, 70s baby?)

then we have tommy leaving, which fair he's on call, and we don't see him again until the hospital kiss. this is the only time we see tommy look remotely interested in buck the entire episode (every other time he has an rbf face, even when they're hugging).

7x09

we only see tommy during the medal ceremony, and he still manages to say something to piss me off. "enjoy it while it lasts" because he can't indulge his boyfriend for two seconds. it's becoming a pattern, i'm afraid

7x10

the date scene was a weird way to end their s7 relationship. buck was opening up about his trauma, tried to find middle ground by saying "so we both have daddy issues" (nothing in the context made it seem sexual, in fact i didn't realize until tommy made the joke, so it's possible buck didn't either) and then tommy says "i don't" despite admitting that he did only a few seconds before. buck says with a slightly resigned (barely there, but still there) tone, "but you think i do" and tommy responds with "god i hope so". any other context and it would've been fine, but buck had just been talking ahout how his father figure literally died and came back to life. there's a post somewhere (pretty sure it was an ask someone sent me actually, if i can find it i'll link)that talks about how buck has a habit of going along with his love interests to avoid causing waves, and how that's exactly what buck was doing in 7x10, and it makes perfect sense. if buck had a problem with it, he wouldn't immediately say. he'd sit on it for weeks before even considering bringing it up (like natalia and death, and how he avoided taylor in s5). even if he wasn't uncomfortable, it doesn't take away from the fact that the timing was weird and buck wasn't in a good headspace to respond properly.

in conclusion

tommy is repeatedly a bad person. just because he hasn't said anything racist or sexist since season two, it doesn't negate this. you'll notice that almost all of his scenes are here, if not all. the writers have chosen to have him repeatedly look bad and like someone who only cares about himself (with the way he constantly tries to defend his actions by blaming gerrard, and how he only cares about his feelings about being out), but the bt stans are too excited at the prospect of two white men kissing (or just two men and they don't care who, thus dumping eddie, it depends on the bt) that they choose to look past it and hate on ryan/eddie instead.

these last three months in the fandom have felt so different compared to the rest. the fandom i knew pre s7 would never act this way. is it because lou is a nepo baby? i know it's not because of his looks. but either way, i'm disappointed, and hope s8 treats us (fans who actually care about the characters and don't actively want less for them) better

(if i missed anything, let me know and i'll edit the post to add it)

[electricpurrs]

alphys's entire arc is about how she did horrible things (or what was perceived by her as horrible things) in the past, and because of that spent the rest of her life hating herself, hiding everything about herself, lying about herself, because she thought everyone else hated her too, or would hate her if they knew the true her, the one beyond the lies, the one who did all those horrible things. it's about trauma and about guilt and about self hate and self harm. alphys isn't just nerdy and awkward, she's anxious all the time because she's terrified of how other people perceive her. it's about how the guilt over bad actions can lead people to hurt themselves for years afterwards, and believe that because they made mistakes once, they can never be forgiven, they can never accept love or affection because they're inherently tainted, inherently dirty, evil. she doesn't just lie about metatton to make herself look like a hero because she wanted to inflate her ego, she believed the human could never, ever like her unless she lied about who she was. the same way about undyne. alphys quite directly states she was considering committing suicide when she left in the true lab and you learn about the source of all her guilt. and then people don't like her because they think she's Annoying

[filmnoirsbian]

Because you said you like being a hater and I think being a hater is mean. Why direct your emotions towards hate when you can just talk about the things you love instead and have the things you hate occupy zero brainspace? That’s a better insult I think, but nobody gets hurt by it. Win-win! Also, when I say “bad”, I don’t mean morally bad. I mean technically “bad”. If something has a “weak” story or “bad” art (1/2)

But doesn’t perpetuate any bad ‘isms or phobias (racism, homophobia, ableism, transphobia, etc.) then it shouldn’t be considered “bad” art, just art that maybe isn’t one’s cup of tea! That’s all you need to say. “Oh, not my cup of tea, thank you :)” and nobody gets hurt! But the ones that DO perpetuate the ‘phobias and isms? Those deserve no attention save for a warning. Hate them by starving them! No brainspace for you! And your brain will feel healthier too :)

Not to be "mean" but this is such a frustrating and obnoxious take for several reasons, the first being that it reduces creators to some nebulous, juvenile figure incapable of handling failure or critique, two of the most important steps in the creating process. Do you think we're all just blissfully unaware when something we do doesn't work? Do you think we're all snivelling children who must be catered to and patted on the head when we make mistakes, therefore condemned to never learning from them and growing as an artist and as a person? Making bad art is practically necessary for most artists because it is how we grow, just like falling down is part of learning to walk. Creators who cannot get back up, dust themselves off, take critique and learn from it are destined to have a pretty fucking bad time creating--save for those individuals who indulge in making bad art, whose tastes run towards that direction and create solely for themselves, and trust me, they'll have a good time regardless of any "haters" and will in fact probably delight in it.

"Bad" remains an integral and existing qualifier for art for as long as there remain billions of artists will a billion different ideas and thought processes and capabilities. Bad art must exist for good art to exist. If "all art is good art" then the word "good" as well as any other descriptors used for it lose all meaning, but apparently that's what you want, which in turn means you aren't interested in either creating or critiquing because both of those things carry meaning in their soul. If, as you said before, "nothing matters," then neither does art, which I find a rephrehensible take, just as I find nihilism itself reprehensible. Everything matters, actually, because if it doesn't then there is no "morally bad," an idea which you cling to despite it not being able to coexist with your other main conceit. You cannot have both. You cannot say nothing matters and all art is inherently good by virtue of being art, but also there is some objective morality scale by which all art is judged to determine its goodness. Your two points are at odds with each other, and by waggling your finger against "hating" you are denying every artist the right to learn and grow and become better.

[anneapocalypse]

I wrote about this in the faith post, but every time I log in on my alt or just NG+ some ARR for Ariane, I am reminded that Urianger appears quite happy in ARR before a bunch of his friends are murdered and he's kidnapped and held hostage and then his best friend dies and the entire Crystal Braves disaster happens. He's not heavily involved in the plot for most of ARR but when you see him in the Waking Sands pre-Garlean attack, he is not lurking reclusively in the corner or buried in his books; he's engaged in animated conversations with other Scions, and he's happy to chat with you excitedly about their work if you talk to him.

There's this reading out there of Urianger as unhappy and withdrawn until he comes out of his shell in Shadowbringers, which I just don't think is actually accurate to his canon journey. I fell into it myself for a bit, because the Warriors of Darkness plot is when I really started paying attention to him, and from that point on he is very isolated and not doing great, for very understandable reasons! And for a long time, the image of him standing alone in the corner of the Wakings Sands was really burned into my mind--but that's post-WoD Urianger. That's not ARR Urianger.

Yeah, he struggled with socialization as a kid, but that was before he'd found his people with Louisoix and the Circle of Knowing. He clearly doesn't have trouble socializing in the Scions even if some of them find him peculiar. Like most of the Circle of Knowing members, he has some unresolved issues sure, but he's doing all right--up until he experiences a frankly unreal amount of trauma and upheaval in rapid succession, after which I think most people would not be doing all right.

And his dramatic visual transformation in Shadowbringers is inherently deceptive, not just because Urianger himself is involved in a big deception (delightfully lampshaded in the name of his gearset being "Soothsayer," truth-teller, exactly what he isn't at the time), but because arguably Shadowbringers is actually Urianger reliving all of his ARR-HW trauma and having all his old wounds opened:

relocated against his will

forced to lie to his friends for the greater good

forced to accept the sacrifice of yet another companion, and arguably a leader, as for the greater good

watching multiple friends suffer because he asked for their help

bearing witness to a messy adoptive parent-child relationship, which probably brings up some feelings about his own childhood and parental neglect

watching his close friend's old wounds and abandonment issues reopened

constantly living with the knowledge that all of this is, directly or indirectly, his fault

He is having such a bad time in Shadowbringers, and it's only with the lessons learned from that journey and the failure of the Exarch's plan that he eventually has an epiphany and begins to make peace with himself, culminating in the moon scene in Endwalker.

And that's part of what I love about his journey, I think, that it's not a simple A->B character transformation. We see him when he's doing pretty all right, all things considered, and then we see him fall and fall and fall, sometimes repeating the same mistakes multiple times before he figures out how to grow from them and ultimately find peace.